


my brother pavel

by nadia5803



Category: Brat'ya Karamazovy | Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: Half-Siblings, I don’t ship them just think they’d have a good dynamic, Sibling Bonding, Strange brotherly relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29501640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadia5803/pseuds/nadia5803
Summary: alyosha and pavel talk a little
Kudos: 2





	my brother pavel

**Author's Note:**

> oops i just started this book a few days ago and these two are my favorites so, had to write a little drabble with what i feel would be an appropriate dynamic for them. sorry if it’s ooc, as i said, just started the book :’)

Alyosha returned home to the sound of a soft guitar coming from upstairs. He cleared his throat, let the door shut behind him, and the melody abrputdly ended. Surveying the bottom floor from the foyer, he noted that his brothers, and his father, seemed to be absent. Then, hearing footsteps creaking above, he spoke. “Smerdyakov?”

Pavel Fyodorvich Smerdyakov appeared at the top of the staircase, guitar slung over his back. He glared at Alyosha, who replied with a toothy smile. “It sounds quite nice, Smerdyakov.” 

Smerdyakov grunted a response and vanished again, footsteps disappearing down the corridor. 

At first, Alyosha thought, Smerdyakov should not be in the house. Why isn’t he out in the back? Then, once he kicked off his shoes, he clutched his rosary, and felt both curious and generous. Such was a particular mixture for the youngest Karamazov.

Smerdyakov left the doors open, and looked to be sweeping the upstairs quarters. Specifically, he had landed in Ivan’s room, where the bedsheets had been tousled and rufdled and some books strewn over the floor, open and laying facedown on their pages. Plays, books on religion, philosophy, history. Smerdyakov must have sensed Alyosha’s peeking, though, for he stormed out of his spot and slammed the door shut in his face. 

Alyosha reached out his hand to the door, then pulled it back, hesitating. Instead, he stepped into his room. He opened the windows, lit a few candles, ran his hands up the spine of the Bible, whispered a prayer. He removed the shawl of his cassock and draped it on the back of his chair, and shut the door behind him, returning across the hall, where faint guitar could be heard through the door. Alyosha pressed his head to the door, listening to the surprisingly elegant strumming and the contolled falsetto of Smerdyakov’s otherwise pitchy tone. He paused when the music stopped again, reaching a hand to the crucifix around his neck, when the door swung open. Smerdyakov stared hatefully at him. “What are you sniffing around for?”

“I was simply enjoying your music,” Alyosha commented. “I didn’t know, really, that you were a musician, until I crossed you and Maria that day. You have quite a talent, not just in cooking, it seems.” Smerdyakov reddened, scrunching his brows and responding with a frustrated huff. Alyosha waited, patient, hands folded on his lap. “I enjoy hearing you play. You must do it more often.”

“Yes, Alexey Fyodorovich,” Smerdyakov began, slicking back his hair and straightening his posture. “I shall suit to play more often.” He turned back into Ivan’s room, hunching over to pick up the spilled books and neatening up the sheets. “Excuse my invasion of your brother’s room.”

Alyosha nodded and smiled warmly.

Smerdyakov turned to him as he returned the books to their place on Ivan’s shelf. “And please do not inform him, or Fyodor Pavlovich, please, Alexey.”

“I won’t,” Alyosha said, hiding his hands in the pockets of his cassock. Alexey Fyodorovich was not one to lie. In fact, he felt squeamish at the thought of it. But, despite this, and the monitoring eyes of his father and brother, he did feel as if he owed poor Smerdyakov at least somewhat of a favor for his hard work and beautiful song. “Where is my father?”

Smerdyakov shut Ivan’s door behind him and looked at Alyosha through suspicious, narrowed eyes. “Out,” he replied, monotone. The acoustic guitar was slung over his back, elevating Smerdyakov’s height to be just above Alyosha. “Your brothers, too. You’ve returned earlier than expected.”

Alyosha responded with a halfhearted shrug. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

Smerdyakov scoffed and turned his attention to Alyosha’s room. “Do you need anything cleaned?” he asked, voice going saccharine and condescending, as if he were speaking to a tiny schoolboy. “Your icons, your bible, your desk, your windows... Anything, Alexey Fyodorovich?”

“I don’t believe so,” he replied with a chuckle. Smerdyakov rolled his eyes and started down the stairs. “Thank you for the offer, though.” 

Smerdyakov stopped on the stairs and sneered. “You’re welcome,” he spat, continuing down the staircase with the gait of an angry soldier. Alyosha followed, his steps light and unnoticeable. No wonder he had been able to sneak up so easily on Smerdyakov. Smerdyakov, moving in the direction of the kitchen, turned back to Alyosha. “Anything else?”

Alyosha shook his head and sat at the table. A Bible was opened on some indistinct bit of Leviticus, pages dog-eared and tabbed all the while. Must be Ivan’s, Alyosha thought, as he smoothed out the pages and moved the ribbon bookmark to the appropriate spot. Smerdyakov, hunched, watched from his placement at the stove. “Do you like the monastery, Alexey Fyodorvich?” asked Smerdyakov.

Looking up, surprised, Alyosha beamed another toothy smile. “Quite. I do feel quite at home there. It is a place of faith, beauty, and peace.”

“And what makes you faithful, Alexey Fyodorovich?”

“God’s love, God’s graciousness. The immortality that awaits us. Piousness is an honorable quality, Pavel Fyodorovich.” Smerdyakov seemed to jump at that, and Alyosha tugged at the skirt of his cassock. “You can call me Alyosha, too. We are brothers, after all.”

“No,” Smerdyakov growled. “Don’t do that. We are not equals. Remember, Alexey Fyodorovich, I cook your meals, and clean your house. I’m no brother of yours. A son of Fyodor Pavlovich, maybe,” he spun a spatula in the air and slammed it on the counter. “No brother of yours. Unless, O Holy One, you’d consider a pathetic bastard servant a brother of yours.”

“Of course I consider you a brother,” Alyosha said incredulously. “You are a brother of mine. Just as much as Ivan or Mitya.”

“Certainly,” Smerdyakov replied sarcastically, casting his eyes down to the stove. 

“Pasha...” Alyosha began, his voice syurpy and warm. Smerdyakov seized up at that, his face going bright red and his eyes shining with sudden rage. “You are, certainly, a brother of mine. I am grateful for your hard work here,” Alyosha rose, a hand extended. “Matthew— Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.”

“I am not—“ Smerdyakov, furious, jammed a finger in Alyosha’s face. “I am not interested in your preaching, O Holy One. Do not call me that. You are not to call me that,” he hissed, face contorted with anger. Then, seeing the surprise in Alyosha’s glassy eyes, he lowered his finger and stuck them in the pockets of his dirtied apron. “Forgive me, Alexey Fyodorovich. I didn’t intend to frighten you. Do, do forgive me,” he said, lifting a trembling hand to his forehead.

“You are forgiven.” Then, Alyosha signed the cross on Smerdyakov, who lurched back in horror. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No.”

“My apologies,” Alyosha said, hands dropping to his sides. “I will pray for you, dear brother.”

Smerdyakov shivered. “And I forgive you.” With an exit fit for a flourish, he stormed out the back door of the kitchen, marching towards Grigory’s shack in a rage and a hurry.


End file.
